Story and Photography by Mark Hume The pavement turned to gravel at around six miles and Sylvia slowed the car to avoid a jolt. It came anyway. The small rented Japanese compact had less clearance than she’d thought and there was a scrape as its tires crossed the dividing line between city and country. “Oh damn,” she said and cast a quick glance over at her father. He was waking up, his head nodding forward and coming up just before his chin hit his chest. She felt like apologizing, but didn’t. She was saying sorry less now, and feeling better for it. But her father could have used another 40 minutes sleep. Since she’d seen him in the small downtown eastside hotel room he now called home, his paleness had haunted her. It had been nearly two years since the last time they’d been together; he’d never looked so tired, so old. Driving east from Vancouver she’d thought: “He’s 68. He’s dying.” Waking up in the small car Arthur blinked a few times and gripped the arm rest. He seemed uncertain of where he was for a moment, then leaned forward to look under the sun visor and get a better view of the mountains. “We’re across the bridge already,” he said. “They’ve pushed the pavement in some since I was last here.” She was always surprised at this, the way he could look at the land and in an instant know where he was. Was he ever uncertain of anything in his life, she wondered, a little impatiently. “You haven’t been up here in 10 years,” she said. “How can you be so sure where we are?” “Well, the mountains haven’t changed any,” he said. They rode in silence for a time after...